Chapter 1 — The Warning

I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering
of mortals; but I’ll admit that I was annoyed
at the sardonic interruption. “Really,
Holmes,” said I severely, “you are a little
trying at times.”

He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to
give any immediate answer to my remonstrance.
He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast
before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which
he had just drawn from its envelope. Then he
took the envelope itself, held it up to the light,
and very carefully studied both the exterior and the
flap.

“It is Porlock’s writing,” said
he thoughtfully. “I can hardly doubt that
it is Porlock’s writing, though I have seen it
only twice before. The Greek e with the peculiar
top flourish is distinctive. But if it is Porlock,
then it must be something of the very first importance.”

He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but
my vexation disappeared in the interest which the
words awakened.

“Who then is Porlock?” I asked.

“Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere
identification mark; but behind it lies a shifty and
evasive personality. In a former letter he frankly
informed me that the name was not his own, and defied
me ever to trace him among the teeming millions of
this great city. Porlock is important, not for
himself, but for the great man with whom he is in
touch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish with
the shark, the jackal with the lion—­anything
that is insignificant in companionship with what is
formidable: not only formidable, Watson, but
sinister—­in the highest degree sinister.
That is where he comes within my purview. You
have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?”

“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among
crooks as—­”

“My blushes, Watson!” Holmes murmured
in a deprecating voice.

“I was about to say, as he is unknown to the
public.”

“A touch! A distinct touch!” cried
Holmes. “You are developing a certain
unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which
I must learn to guard myself. But in calling
Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the
eyes of the law—­and there lie the glory
and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of
all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling
brain of the underworld, a brain which might have
made or marred the destiny of nations—­that’s
the man! But so aloof is he from general suspicion,
so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management
and self-effacement, that for those very words that
you have uttered he could hale you to a court and emerge
with your year’s pension as a solatium for his
wounded character. Is he not the celebrated
author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which
ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics
that it is said that there was no man in the scientific
press capable of criticizing it? Is this a man
to traduce? Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered
professor—­such would be your respective
roles! That’s genius, Watson. But
if I am spared by lesser men, our day will surely
come.”